On second thought...

"Infernal, dratted... doomed box of Pandora!"

He glares at the black screen, a dim version of himself scowling back.

But scowling won't deliver her "royal highness's" requested changes to her "royal mansion". That blasted woman! Drat Patrick for consenting and promising - again. And drat this computer. Drat it all! He turns, pushing both hands through his blonde hair, making them stand up like tufts of grass in all directions. He grabs the telephone. All but crushes the keys.

"Patrick, this box of doom has lost its mind! Gone and packed up, I'm telling you. One second I'm drawing her Royal Pai - Miss Hughlett's plans..."

"Ferguson..."

"Then - bam - black screen! PC restarts. Five minutes later same thing... Third time the PC died completely. Confounded thing won't turn back on! And I was just working. Pressed nothing funny. I've checked the power. Everything on your list.”

"Ferguson..."

"Told you the things can't be trusted. Why did you agree to Hughlett's changes - I was almost done!"

'Listen, Ferguson, calm..."

He plucks the receiver down. Walks to the door. Back to the computer. This of all things. Of all days, this Electrical Eve has to go into a big, fat, feminine fit!

The one thing that baffles him more, unsettles him more - downright scares him more - than a woman, is her coded counterpart. Technology. In all forms. These elusive beings seemed to taunt him. He couldn’t understand them. Granted, many men claimed the same, but they at least seemed capable of grasping some level of what went on inside a female’s head. Not him. He failed completely. They only made his life complicated, threw him off balance and stole what little peace he managed to scrape together.

In fact, he was busy blowing off steam on exactly this thread, blaming his sister, and Miss Hughlett, and this… this box of disaster, for ruining not only his day but his entire week, his entire life, when… He stiffens. Turns slowly toward the computer. He was losing his marbles, surely, because he could swear that just after a particularly nasty comment, there had flashed a message across the screen, and the machine began its nonsense… He was sure he saw it, plain and clear: “You will swallow your words, Ferguson,” before the screen went black.

Where was Patrick? Ferguson pulls his hands through his hair again. Might as well retry the computer one last time while he waits - not that he could wait much longer. That pompous woman and her plans were waiting. And heaven help the soul who dares to make Miss-Manicured-Millions wait! He crawls underneath the desk. Mumbling his grudges against all things female. Flicks off the power supply. Waits a few seconds. Flicks the switch back on. He reverses on all fours, still fuming. Continues to reverse while turning, to get clear of the desk. “Stupid computer! If you think…” His eyes met with a pair of worn sneakers. Ankle-high, All Star sneakers. And for some unexplained reason, his heart starts beating just a little faster.

Skinny jeans. Also worn. Lean legs, gently curving into the slight rounding of hips. Definitely not Patrick. Definitely not one of his kin. No. This was… He could feel his chest drawing tighter as his eyes continued their journey upwards. Blue and white striped t-shirt, white denim jacket. Bangles. Red. Wooden. Same for the necklace. Straight auburn hair, just below shoulder-length. Some sprinkled freckles. Big, nerdy glasses. Big, grey eyes. With a blue rim. This, this was... He struggles to breathe. Staggers to his feet, hitting his shoulder against the desk. How much had she heard of his rant against everything and anything her kind?

He could only stare at her. As illogical as it sounds, his mind was simultaneously a total blank, and a racing flight display board flipping through possible things to say. The sinking feeling in his stomach accompanying the mute helplessness, was, however, slowly feeding his aggravation. Who was she? What did she want? Finally he manages to look past her to the doorway. And his tongue obliges enough for him to manage: “Patrick?”

“Patrick’s asked me to come have a look at your girl here.” She extends her hand to him. “Blakely. From IT. How can I be of assistance, Mr?...” Was she alluding to his rant beneath the desk? Was she teasing him? Was he imagining it, or were the corners of her - rosy - lips trying not to lift too high?

She glances past him at the cause of his predicament, but still, he could not manage more than a clearing of his throat as he turned and gestured towards his desk. Thankfully, her eyes caught his name on his desk. “Let’s see to your problem, Mr Fitzpatrick. She won’t turn on?” With that she steps forward. Presses the power button. And the two-faced-Delilah starts up with no problem at all. Runs through the motions. Displays the desktop just like earlier in the day. Only - this desktop has a big, bright birthday cake and message mocking him: “Best birthday ever.”

At first he stares at the screen, flabbergasted, it being all he can do. Stupefied. But, if what he thinks is happening is busy happening, he should not be surprised at all. His jaw sets. No, not surprised. What he should be is concerned. About his sanity. Surely he was not caught in a Cold War with a piece of technology? A sly piece silently fighting a battle of wills with him, at his expense.

This realisation made him look at the lady beside him. She was studying him, and this time, she was losing the battle of keeping the corners of her mouth at bay. He was mortified to find that the idea of her considering him incompetent, stupid, helpless, struck a mortal blow to his pride. She cocked her head, one eyebrow raising ever so slightly. Her scrutiny of him seemed... Suspicious? She could not possibly think that he was faking? He found himself gruffly mumble something resembling a thank you, pull the chair in place, sit down, and navigate to the saved file on the cloud. He wanted to sink through the floor, and the seven floors below it, too. Horrified, he felt his ears warm. This was not happening? Ha! Best birthday, indeed. 

 To her credit, she was gracious. After a hasty “No problem. Luckily nothing too serious” and a pat on his shoulder, she left. And he sat there, fighting off some unwelcome guilt creeping up. And uncomfortable thoughts tickling the fringes of his memory. He should be working, it was of paramount importance that he should be attempting to make up for lost time, but… Blakely… Patrick had mentioned something about a cousin joining the company. Remnants of another discussion, had over a well-deserved beer, managed to present themselves in Ferguson’s befuddled brain: Patrick joking about the guys inventing all kinds of reasons and excuses for getting some of his cousin’s attention… Great. Just great. That look she gave him - she had probably been reaching the conclusion that he had been doing the exact same thing! Wangling a big whopper so that he could also be served his portion of her time… His ears burned in earnest now, though he felt a little less guilty about his rude behavior. That ought to have contradicted her erroneous conclusions!

An image appears on screen; his stomach gives a twist. A laughing Blakely, glancing off screen, eyes sparkling, cheek dimpling. But: “Very nice girl. We’d like to make her acquaintance again, wouldn’t we?” ruined the effect. He hissed his denial at the crazy machine. “Quit it! Let me work!” The image remained, but the words changed to “No? Then why the blush?”

Next moment he is sent into a panicked clicking and pressing of keys by Patrick’s head popping around the corner. “Hughlett has asked about her plans - when she can expect to receive the update, that sort of thing. So? All sorted? What was the issue?”

Ferguson casts an impatient look toward his drawing board in the corner; he longed for the days where a steaming cup of coffee and pencil got his job done for him. The only reason he had managed to cling to his old-school ways, was because his bosses are also his friends. They had put up with his stubborn streak for as long as demands had made allowance. There was no longer time for the luxury of traditional. Patrick had bought him the computer, taught him (tonnes of patience required in the process) the basics of what he needed to do his job. And he had managed quite well. Grudgingly admitting that it was going a lot quicker. For two weeks. Now this.

He meets Patrick’s inquiring eyes. Feels stupid all over again. “Apparently nothing significant. Had no problem when your cousin turned it on, though it refused to when I tried.” Patrick must’ve heard some of the bitterness Ferguson was feeling, since he left it there. “Well, best get going on Miss Hughlett’s mansion then.” And he was gone.

If looks could kill, the computer would certainly have been blasted to dust. “I’ll swallow my words, will I? I think not! I repeat - the overall consequences of my exposure to female beings has resulted in stress, degradation and frustration. With you being the main cause! It is going to make me old before my time. And is driving me daft. I am actually having an argument with a computer! Look, I need you to cooperate, OK? It’s of utmost importance that I finish these plans. Today. So no messing around again, you hear me?” He had just settled into that ideal, focused state, when she flashes her message on screen: “So you admit that you are dependent on the help of a female?”

“No! I am forced to it! And only because of time - I don’t need you to draw! I’d just as soon...” The screen dipped to black for just a second, and his heart skipped a beat. “Look here, you annoying invader, all you’re doing is strengthening my antipathy towards you. I’ve had enough! You're not aiding the case for Eves - you're…”

In a typical female fit, the computer dies abruptly. He gives a wry laugh. “That’s it! I’m done with you! I’m not calling IT. You can go rust on a trash heap!” He would love to kick something right now! Considers the dustbin. Rather grabs his laptop, his whole being an ominous thundercloud as he storms towards the lunchroom. Thank goodness for things like company networks. And cloud-based editing, or else he would have been completely scr… He stops. Realises where his thoughts have gone. This was technology he was talking about! He increases his pace. More than half the day has been wasted, and only by some miracle will he manage to… 

Papers were sent flying as he rounded the corner. Classic. And it just had to be Blakely coming around same time as he. What was she doing here anyway, with a pile of paperwork? Favours for some ogling oke, perhaps? Inexplicably, his ire is stoked several degrees. But Blakely’s calm collection of her papers calls his manners to action, so he stoops and collects the remaining strays. Dumps it onto her pile, his thunder by no means abated. She just gives him a side-glance.

He reaches his destination without further incident. Readies the laptop with rough tugs and pulls. Raps his fingers incessantly while the Cloud loads. Then… 

No! No no no no. This is all just too ludicrously terrible to be true! He was staring at an empty cloud. None of his backups. He goes completely still as a window appears. “Hello, Ferguson. You can’t escape me, you fool. And you can’t run from attraction either.” He was going to go hysterical... “What do you want? An apology? My ruined career?” He manages through clenched teeth.

“Finally! We’re making progress! No. I want you to realise that females are companions. Necessary companions. And the occasional device too.” Ferguson no longer felt like hysterics. He was going to explode, soon. “For the love of Mike! Ever heard of ‘to each his own?’ Buzz off and let me be!” He collects the cable, packs up the loose items. “Ferguson, you forget one important thing. You still need me for Hughlett’s job.” And with that, blue sparks emit, followed by foul-smelling smoke. 

Whoever saw him approaching probably thought it best to steer clear. Good for them. He was shaking with anger as he missioned toward Patrick's office. Empty office. “You have got to be kidding me!” The day was basically over, his files gone, his sanity along with them. Only thing left was giving up. He was like a bull with a broken horn as he marched back to his office. Three cubicles before it, an unfortunate chap managed to cross his path. For the second time that day, it was raining papers, the guy left staring after him.

“Ferguson?” He cringed, but kept going. Couldn’t grasp her tenacity. Why was she even still bothering to give him anything more than a second of her time? He had been rude. Self-centered... “Ferguson!” She had managed to catch up with him. Lays a detaining hand on his arm, but he shakes it off. She catches up again, entering and circling around to face him up front, and this time stops him with a hand to his chest. “Ferguson, calm down.” She peeks at the black screen. “Let’s try one more time - things are never as bad as they seem?” She was.. Pleading? Somehow he manages the words “my files.. Gone…”

“Most of the time they are recoverable - I’ll see what I can do”. She crosses to the computer. Turns it on - again without hassle. He gives a bitter chuckle. 

“Should I go to the cloud?” She already has it opening. “Let’s see - was this the latest file?”

But he can only gawk, numbed, at his plans - his completed plans - open in front of him. “Is it finalized?” Only a slight dip of his chin. “Great, let’s get it sent ASAP.” Her fingers dance across the keys; then it's done. Unbelievable, but done.

The relief was overwhelming. And yet, he felt like a cornered animal and wanted nothing more than to bolt for freedom. What’s with the woman?  This moral support… Why? It bewildered him - hence the desire to flee.

Her voice returns him to the present. “So… Feel free to call me anytime the old girl’s moody again." Silence. For several awkward, nerve wrecking beats. Because, for the life of him, Ferguson just can’t bring himself to formulate words in a coherent enough order to talk to the woman. He nods. Gives her a half-hearted smile. Wishing she could turn around and leave now. Wanting her to stay. For the first time in a very long time, he actually felt like crying. Why, oh why was he such a hopeless dud when it came to women? She seems to catch the drift of his desires, though.

He barely waits to hear her footsteps recede before he exhales with all the built-up force of his despair. Turns toward the computer. Freezes. The words “Bravo! You blundering buffoon!” taunts him. Big. Bold. And this time, he allows himself the satisfaction of sending the dustbin and its contents sailing across the room.

He yanks the laptop bag closer. Shoves in papers. Wishes he could shove thoughts and emotions down as easily. Feels his throat pulling tighter. Suddenly, all the awards and nominations he had received through the years seemed insignificant. Empty. Never has he felt more like the loser he is. Angry at his inability to adjust to his world. To function “normally”. Angry at himself for his impotence when it comes to women. Angrier still that it’s bothering him. After all - they only confuse him, don’t they? And he avoids them. Right? Just like those confounded computers. And cell phones. And what have you. He tugs the strap across his shoulder. No. He is better off without everything female. He is… He very nearly knocks her over as he turns to stomp out of the office.

For Pete’s sake! What is with this woman and sneaking up on a guy? His fists were actually bulging at his sides. And her amused smile was fading under his glare. Wavering... A bleep behind him manages to infiltrate his irked state. Another bleep registers with him, and he casts an irritated glance at the screen behind him, in time to catch the warning which flashed. And relief washes through him. Darling computer! Thank you! No. No - If at all possible, he was not going to ruin the opportunity. Again.

His fingers dive into his hair in an act of mustering his courage. Willing his overall human functioning to do just that - to function. He manages to flash Blakely a lopsided grin. And.. this seemed to loosen his chest, somewhat, and his tongue. “Sorry about that. Th-thank you for your h-help.” This time his smile is more of a smile. She seemed to perk up a bit. At least she returned his smile, and that’s positive. Right?

Yes, because she breaks the silence with: "I was thinking…” Deep breath. “I could… I could have a look at yon girl over there (pointing to the laptop) while you buy me a cup of coffee? And.. and tell me about your designs?” This time, her grin could be described as lopsided. And just like that, hope started blooming in his chest. And his tongue could function again. Just a bit. "Coffee? Coffee - yes coffee. A cup of coffee. Sure"

In one moment, her radiant smile became the greatest award he has ever received. Maybe, on second thought, all things female - whatever shape or form - are not so bad, after all. He is willing to acknowledge that, just maybe, his life is not better off without them, but much better off because of them.